David Alan Dedin
Better Call Saul
Fourteen
Better Call Saul
2006
“I’ll be there in the morning,” Audrey’s voice said in the cell phone. “I booked an early flight, it lands at 11:20. If you can have Stephanie ready, we’ll all find somewhere by the airport to have lunch – my treat.”
“And your return flight?” Alan asked, pouring a whiskey-mimosa with the phone between his chin and shoulder. “How long is your layover?”
“The flight back is four-twenty,” Audrey told him. “I figure that will give us about four, four and a half hours to meet, eat, and say our goodbyes.”
“Audrey, I am so sorry about all this.”
“It’s not your fault,” she assured him, begrudgingly. “It is what it is. God knows, this entire family has been chosen for some big, cosmic test of our resolve.” – Jacob was watching Headline News on the hotel room TV as she spoke – “But I am admittedly concerned about Stephanie. The similarities of the accidents, Alan. They’re just…chilling.”
“I understand.”
“And if it wasn’t for Dale’s arraignment yesterday, I’d have been on a plane in a heartbeat. I hope you know that. There’s a very good chance that my son is going to jail. That’s the only reason I’m still here now.”
“Again, Audrey, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
“People always say that God has a plan for our lives,” Audrey went on, “but I have to admit – it’s hard for me to see what that plan might be right now.” She watched in frustration as Jacob hobbled towards the suite’s narrow bathroom, where his cast hit the door with a thud. Alan heard him say, “Honey – can you get the toilet seat for me?” The question made him look at his own casted arm.
“…But I do know that bringing Stephanie back is the right thing to do,” the old woman added. “And Steph is already weeks behind in school. If she doesn’t get back to classes Monday, she’ll fall too far behind to catch up. She’ll likely have to repeat the year.”
“I get it, Audrey.” He heard her sigh.
“Could you pass the phone to my granddaughter, please?”
“Of course – just a second.”
Taking a quick gulp of orange juice-colored whiskey, Alan walked through the gilded home and stopped at Patrick’s bedroom door. It was closed. He knocked. There was no answer. “Stephanie? Your grandma’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
Silence.
“Steph, could you open the door please?”
Silence. He jiggled the knob, but it was locked. He knocked again, louder this time. “How about if I just pass the phone to you?” He heard her stir – “Go away.”
Alan sighed. “Audrey, I’m sorry. She’s okay, but she’s resting.”
The old woman chuckled. “You mean, she’s brooding.”
“Yeah.”
“Then, yes – she is okay,” Audrey told him, having clearly done this dance before. “Leave her a note by food. I’m assuming she’s eating?”
“She is.”
“Good. She’s like a mouse in a hole – she’ll come out when she’s hungry.”
“I’ll make sure she gets packed tonight,” Alan assured her. “And lunch tomorrow sounds great.”
“I’ve been using the lobby computer quite a bit,” Audrey added, the sound of her husband urinating audible in the background. “It’s become a nice little respite to get out of the room, and away from Jacob in the evenings. I’ve been reading up on Las Vegas, and I found one of those Checker’s restaurants near the airport. If we have time tomorrow, I’d like to have lunch there.”
“That sounds great, Audrey.”
“Tell Stephanie to call me.”
“I will.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ditto.”
The call ended, and Alan flipped the phone closed. He lingered at Stephanie’s door for a moment, then shuffled towards the kitchen, to refill his drink before his shower. He was wearing one of Patrick’s shiny robes, which twinkled in yellow roses whenever the fabric moved. He freshened his mimosa – glug, glug, glug – then carried the beverage into the massive guest bathroom, where he had already laid out clothes. Starting the shower, he avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror as he tugged off the robe with an ugly, angry rip –
The sequins – falling to the floor like dropped change – had gotten caught on his cast.
* * * * *
“In one half mile, turn right onto Coyote Coven Avenue,” the OnStar voice said, echoing through the cabin of Alan’s rented 07’ Equinox. As cars zipped by in the left side windows, it was hard to forget his crash with Stephanie only a few days before. Alan’s heart thumped as he flipped on the blinkers, then cautiously merged onto the off ramp. He passed another 15MPH sign, only this time – thank God – the brakes deployed correctly, and the SUV slowed to a stop on the other side of the bad side of town. His windshield filled with titty bars and liquor stores.
“Turn right onto Coyote Coven Avenue.”
With the lawyer’s sleazy business card sticking out of the CD player – “Just because you did it doesn’t mean that you’re guilty!” – Alan joined the traffic flow, on a street lined with half-dead palm trees and repurposed buildings from the 70s. Sun faded signs advertised strip clubs, tattoo parlors, and cheap prices on both used tires and window tinting; he could hear loud mariachi as he passed a large, pink grocery store, with a meat department so dirty, he could smell it from the street. Even the nearby hookers kept their noses covered.
“In four hundred feet, your destination is on the left.”
Carefully spinning the steering wheel with his good hand, Alan pulled into the Westward Ho! Professional Plaza, a long, low, 1960s-era strip mall whose architect had clearly used cinder blocks like a child playing with Legos. The grey concrete structure had all the warmth of a Pyongyang housing project, and was home to a number of businesses including, Madame Ovaries’ Chinese Buffet, Me Love You Long Time Adult Toys & Novelties, and a surprisingly respectable Auto Techs garage – an oasis of clean, with a mint 67’ T-Bird, parked in front, under a dust cover.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
A big neon sign splashed across his windshield, as Alan parked in front of the offices of Gross, Floyd, and Rabinowitz. The sign – mounted behind dirty storefront window glass – read:
NOT GUILTY !
Birth-Delivery Trauma
Head Injuries
Car Accidents
Whiplash
Injured Children
Walk-Ins Welcome !
The word “NOT” flashed in red, while the rest of the sign glowed an eerie, luminescent purple. A lower white byline added, All Major Credit Cards Accepted. Alan shut the engine, then made sure he’d brought his numerous traffic citations before grabbing his messenger bag and climbing out of the vehicle. As soon as he did, the storefront door burst open, and an unnervingly tall man with a thick brown moustache and hair so full, it almost looked fake pointed his direction and shouted:
“YOU! YOU COCK SUCKING PIECE OF GODDAMN SHIT!”
Yellow tickets went flying as Alan gasped, instinctively flattening himself against the hot SUV – his cast hitting the metal with a thud. The tall man charged forward, rolling up his sleeves with fists; his eyes were wild, his face was red, and his crimson-colored shirt & tie made him resemble the Red Devil logo. He reached for Alan as though about to strangle him, but then raised an angry finger which pointed over Alan’s shoulder, towards the parking lot.
“DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY FROM ME! DON’T YOU FUCKING DISMISS ME!”
Alan whirled around to see a second man – a short, Jewish fellow, clad in a sharp grey suit and tie – angrily throwing a cardboard box of framed diplomas, Rolodex, and a few important files into his Mercedes. He slammed the trunk closed, then flipped the bird before climbing into the car and starting the engine.
The red man stormed back into the office for a moment, quickly returning with a crystal Star of David – a Community Kollel award for Clark County Legal Excellence. As the Mercedes pulled away, the red man winged the heavy plaque as though it were a football; it spun though the air like a Ninja-star, embedding itself into the car’s grill with a thwack.
The Mercedes skidded to a stop at the back of Alan’s vehicle.
It’s passenger window rolled down –
“You’re due in court in ninety minutes!” the driver yelled, throwing a large file of legal papers onto the blacktop. The court documents filled the air like ticker tape, and the car peeled away in a cloud of dust. A paper stamped with the phrase Third Strike stuck to Alan’s face. He peeled it off as though it were dead skin.
“I’ll take that,” the red man said, snatching the document in one hand and offering his second to Alan. “Bob Gross, Attorney at Law. Are you my eleven-thirty?”
Alan stammered. “I-I-I…yes.” He nervously took Bob’s hand with his broken arm. “Yes, I have an eleven-thirty appointment.”
“Well, come on in!” Gross’s grin was well-rehearsed. Alan hesitated as the lawyer started towards the door. Bob realized this. “What?”
“Err…shouldn’t we get the papers first?” Alan asked. The contents of the tossed file now filled the parking lot like garbage in the wind. Gross shrugged his shoulders –
“Eh. The little prick’s going to jail, anyway. Most of those are just for show in court.”
“Yes, but…I mean, my papers,” Alan pressed. “My tickets – the ones I told your secretary about? The reason why I’m here?” He reached by his boot, where his reckless driving citation had gotten stuck in a piece of gum. He pulled it loose with a snap.
“Oh, shit…right!” Bob quickly adopted a tone of concern, turning towards the blowing mess. “Your tickets are yellow, right?”
Alan nodded.
“Gimmie a second. I’ve got this down to a science.”
As Alan inhaled behind his sunglasses, Gross ran back and forth through the parking lot, like Al Bundy reliving his glory days. Alan watched in amazement as the lawyer somehow managed to gather every fluttering traffic citation, while leaving the rest for nature. A mechanic down the way handed Bob the last one; it had blown into the Auto Tech shop and was now stained with dirty transmission fluid. Gross wiped it in his black pants.
“Got em’,” Bob said, returning with a handful of wrinkled paper. He held the office door open for Alan, and the two went inside.
Maria – the firm’s busty Hispanic secretary – was already scraping Rabinowitz’s name off the window with a razor blade.
* * * * *
Despite its size, the large suite of offices had a temporary feel – as though the whole place could have been packed in a heartbeat, as its occupants absconded a lease in the night. Cheap, stackable chairs circumnavigated the waiting room, while the walls were decorated with the kind of nylon banners one would see at a used car sale: “En-GROSS Yourself in Affordable Legal Representation,” “Gross Pointe Blank Check From Your Insurance Company,” and “A Call Bob, Bob, Bob…If Ya’ Hit n’ Ran!” There were also a number of Successories prints, covering topics like trust, perseverance, and personal accountability.
“Hold my calls, Maria,” Bob said as he led his client through the reception area –
“¿Lo que llama?”
While following Gross, Alan noticed two additional offices in the place – one that was vacant, and a second that looked as if it had just been ransacked. The air smelled of burnt coffee, Lo Mein takeout, and cigarettes. A small TV/VCR sat in the corner, playing a Mexican soap opera. On the screen, a Latino model in his twenties – his white lab coat clearly that of an experienced physician – was giving a gorgeous patient bad news: “Me temo que tiene tres personalidades diferenties. Y todas ellas estan vinculadas por una depresión peligrosa.”
Maria nearly fell off her stilettos as the organ music led to commercial.
“Have a seat,” Bob said in his office, gesturing to a pair of chairs, identical to those in the waiting room. Alan sat down, while the lawyer took his place behind a long, pressed-wood desk, flanked by a pair of green banker’s lamps. Lighting a cigarette, he blotted Alan’s traffic citations with a wad of paper towels. He read them in silence, shaking his head with a chuckle.
“It looks like someone’s in a shit load of trouble,” Gross said.
“That’s why I’m here.” Alan kept his messenger bag close, like a victim clutching her purse. “And I was told that you were the man I should see.”
The twin desk lamps illuminated Bob’s features from both sides. Their placement created a shadow down his face’s center, an effect that was mirrored in the second face behind him – on a large, imposing, wall-mounted advertising banner, like Tommy Wiseau’s old Las Angeles billboard. Alan felt like he was talking to two Bobs at once.
“Damn straight,” Gross said, reading with a cigarette between his teeth. “Reckless driving, improper lane usage, speeding, property damage, and” – the lawyer looked up, almost impressed – “So, you’re the one who knocked down old Jumpin’ Jenny?”
“I am.”
“Damn, that old bitch has been there since I was a kid.” The lawyer laughed. “You bulldozed a local landmark, buddy. You’re going to jail for that, for sure!”
Alan stammered. “Mr. Gross, the car’s brakes had f-f-failed…”
“Oh, I’m just yankin’ your chain, buddy,” Bob laughed. “That old shake joint has been closed for years. But the sign’s a historical landmark. Or, at least it was…until you cut her in half” – he read from the officer’s account – “at the pelvis.”
“It was an accident, Mr. Gross.”
“And there was a kid in the car?” Bob read.
“Yes.”
“And you claim she started screaming, which is why you lost control of the vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“How much had you been drinking?”
“Pardon?”
“How much did you drink before the accident?” Bob asked. “I’m not judging you, buddy…we all need a little hair of the dog from time to time.” He tapped his Styrofoam coffee cup, which, Alan now realized, wasn’t steaming.
“Mr. Gross, I wasn’t drinking.”
“Sure about that?”
Alan opened his bag and produced a pile of hospital papers, placing them on the desk. “We were taken to the hospital immediately following the accident. Blood was drawn. My BAC was point zero.” This made the lawyer smile again.
“Bee, a, see,” Bob enunciated, flipping through the ER paperwork. Alan watched him nod while confirming the point-zero claim. The lawyer took a moment to skim the doctor’s comments. “Yup. No booze in the blood, for sure.” He pushed the papers aside. “So, how many DUI’s am I dealing with here? Two? Three? More than that?”
“Mr. Gross, I just told you I wasn’t drinking.”
“Yes, but people unfamiliar with the system don’t use phrases like BAC,” Gross told him bluntly. “And they definitely don’t offer that particular information right out of the gate.”
“Mr. Gross, I” –
“I’m your fuckin’ lawyer, buddy – so cut to the chase. Everything you tell me stays between the two of us, and I can’t get you out of this unless you lay down your cards right now.” Bob puffed his cigarette. “How many DUI’s?”
Alan hesitated. “Two.”
“In Nevada?” Gross asked.
“No. In Illinois.”
“How recent?”
“One in 2003, and one in 1992.”
“So, eleven years apart?”
“Yes.”
Bob thought about this. Alan watched him grin, stamping out his smoke before taking a swig of bourbon-scented coffee. “Then we’re golden, buddy!”
“How so?” Alan asked cautiously.
“DUI’s don’t travel from state to state,” Gross explained. “And even if they did, they typically drop from your record after five years. As far as the state of Nevada is concerned, you’re a fuckin’ tea-toddler…and just out for a Sunday drive with your daughter to visit” – he read from a citation – “the Las Vegas County Correctional Facility.”
“It wasn’t my daughter,” Alan clarified.
“Eh, details.” Bob shrugged, settling into his chair. “I don’t see a single thing here that can’t be explained away. The girl screamed, so you lost control of the vehicle. Your brakes got damaged, so you had no way to stop. Very honestly, I don’t even know where this reckless driving shit is coming from – which is exactly how we’re gonna’ play this. What I see in front of me is a skilled, sober driver who somehow managed to avoid hitting every other motorist in a clear-headed effort to drive as safely as possible, considering the circumstances” –
The lawyer grinned cheek to cheek.
“What I see is a hero, Mr.” – Gross glanced at the tickets – “Lavinski.”
Silence.
“Of course, it’s gonna’ cost you,” Bob went on. “My retainer is five grand, and that doesn’t include fines and legal fees.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Alan said, taken back.
“Money’s the key to getting out of anything,” Gross told him. “No matter how big or small, and no matter how fuckin’ guilty you might be.”
“Guilty?”
“Turn of phrase,” Bob caught himself. “Of course, you’re not guilty. And I’ll file the paperwork making that clear as soon as you give Maria the cash. Oh – and we’re cash-only, by the way. Helps us work faster. Grease the wheels of justice and all that.”
“I understand.”
“You got the cash?” Gross asked.
“Err – no, not on me of course. But I have it in the bank. If I don’t bring it today, I’ll run it by tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” Bob said. “Like I said, we’re golden.” He gathered Alan’s paperwork, and passed it back to him. Alan looked confused.
“Don’t you need those? To make copies or something?”
“Definitely,” the lawyer told him. “Which is why we’ll need your payment as soon as possible.”
Alan sighed. “All right then.” He gathered his things and stood. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be in touch shortly.”
Gross lit another cigarette. He glanced at his schedule binder, confused. “Hey, buddy – was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”
Alan froze. “Why do you ask?”
“Eh, it’s that damn Maria. She blocked out ninety minutes for you, today.” Cigarette in hand, Bob walked to the door and opened it. “Maria?” he called. Alan could see her in the reception area, rummaging through a box of neck braces to find the right size for a waiting client. From Gross’s office, the receptionist’s breasts looked like two jiggling balloons, threatening a wardrobe malfunction. “Estoy ocupado, Señor Bob.”
Bob smiled at Alan again. “Maybe she blocked off time for a nooner.”
“I thought you had to be in court,” Alan told him.
“Fuck…court!” The lawyer darted to his desk and threw some items into a briefcase. “Maria!” he yelled, tugging on a suit coat. “Where’d that Heeb put the Bizzle file?”
“Es en el estacionamiento, señor Bob.”
Gross paused as though remembering this. Shrugging his shoulders again, he straightened his tie and finished his coffee. Alan watched him open a desk drawer to pour another cup –
“I’ll see myself out,” Alan said.
“Mmm,” Bob nodded, swallowing. “Maria’s here til’ five. I’ll start your case as soon as we have payment.”
“Got it.” Alan bolted for the door. A group of gang-bangers now stood in the waiting room, staring into Rabinowitz’s vacated office in confusion – What the fuck, man? The glass door jingled when Alan hurried towards his car. He could hear Gross yelling from behind him –
“Remember – Money is the key to getting out of anything!”
Slamming into reverse, Alan couldn’t find his flask fast enough.
* * * * *
Forty minutes later, the soft sound of the guest bathroom shower echoed through the now-open door to Patrick’s bedroom, where Stephanie had been hiding for what seemed like days. As the young girl washed her hair, Alan yanked open the hidden compartment’s door, under the bed. He had brought a fireplace poker to retrieve the mysterious suitcases, but found them near the opening, within arm’s reach. He threw them onto the unmade bed, one by one.
He opened the first with a click –
Gasp!
Green money reflected in his eyes as the suitcase was packed with tens of thousands of dollars, in bundles of hundreds. Alan’s fingers combed through the stacks, his brain overwhelmed by the gravity of it all: There must be over two hundred thousand dollars here!
Pushing the first suitcase aside, the second was opened to reveal a similar sum. With the fake city mural twinkling in the background above the lacquer bedroom set, Alan’s eyes widened at the sheer amount of cash beneath his palms –
It was close to a half-million dollars.
This is far too much money from just a single Bingo scam.
Click!
Expecting a third suitcase of currency, Alan was surprised to find no cash at all within the last piece of luggage. Rather than bills, it was packed with photos, cards, and scraps of paper – as though someone had been planning a scrapbook, but never found the right moment to put it all on paper.
His eyes then focused on the contents itself, which was obviously a record of Patrick’s own life, up to this point. There were photos from Checker’s, when the trio was together, as well as pictures from a time Alan didn’t remember – photographs spanning 1992-2005, when Guinevere, Patrick, and Alan had gone their separate ways, following Patrick’s arrest.
I remember this time. Patrick moved to Nevada, Gwen decided to stay with her parents, and I got my first job at a hotel. We all found a way to get on with our lives, but it was still so incredibly sad…
Despite the cash, Alan couldn’t help but feel moved by the pictures, and the memories they held within. Back in 92’, he had lost contact with Patrick for almost a decade – a ten-year span in which Alan struggled with depression, one of the darkest periods of his life. As he looked at Patrick’s photos from that period, he could almost sense a similar melancholy, though the bright lights of late-90s Vegas did their best to hide it.
And Guinevere’s photos, starting with the birth of Stephanie, also simmered with an unfamiliar anxiety as Alan remembered a woman – and a friend forever his Schnookums – who he had the chance to stay in contact with, but chose not to because –
Chose not to because…
“Because there are things that must never be said aloud,” Alan said to himself. Because saying such things will scare the hell out of people, and make them go away forever…
“I’m assuming THIS is one of those things that must never be said aloud,” Stephanie announced, standing in the bedroom’s open door. Her hair was wet. She wore only a pink towel. She was holding a photograph from the suitcase she’d found yesterday, which she showed to Alan.
“What’s the story behind this picture, Alan? I know what it’s about, but I want to hear you say it.”
Alan recognized the dashboard camera screen shot immediately.
“Is this why you’re so afraid to help Patrick?” the young girl demanded. “Does Patrick getting arrested bring back too many memories for you?” She wanted an answer.
Alan’s eyes went red, as adrenalin hit his bloodstream.
Stephanie noticed this.
“Doesn’t feel good to get yanked out of your comfort zone, does it?” she asked.
Alan’s fingers made a fist around the poker. He held it at his side, when he stood up, holding it outward.
Steph’s face went white. The police exhibit photo fluttered from her fingers.
She instinctively stepped backwards.
Alan instinctively stepped forward.
Her towel hit the floor when she ran, but Alan, fueled by unexpected rage, easily overtook her.
A few moments later, glass shattered in the kitchen…